Hustle Rose
by Victoria Squalor
Summary: The entertainment at Ashley's bachelorette party proves to be a bit more than the demure and anxious Miss Thorne can handle. (Hook/Aurora, Storybrooke!AU)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I got an anon message on Christmas Day asking why didn't I have Hook giving Aurora a lap dance. As these vague prompts usually do, this got out of hand, and it's going to require another update. With actual porn.

I decided to call Aurora "Roxane" here since that's also a French name meaning "dawn"; Thorne is pretty self-explanatory.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own OUAT. Just let me have the mental image of Colin thrusting to R. Kelly, okay?

* * *

**Hustle Rose**

by Victoria Squalor

* * *

She'd initially thought the lurid pink envelope wedged beneath her saucer had been a mistake, but no, there was her name in loopy feminine scrawl across the front. _You are invited to a bachelorette party in honor of Ashley Boyd, _touted the slip of cardstock within, which had a border of faux black lace clearly meant to evoke associations with thigh-high stockings and naughtiness in general.

Ruby clarified upon her return to pour her another cup of generic orange pekoe. "I know you don't really know Ashley, but she's great. She doesn't really get to hang out with us anymore because of the baby and all, but I wanted to do something fun for her before she and the old man make it official."

Roxane inclined her head slightly, feeling impressed that Ruby was already willing to include her as part of the inner circle, after what amounted to about two weeks' worth of tentative friendship between the two women. She'd only been coming to Granny's on a semi-regular basis—not for the food, so much, because frankly she could get far better tea and pastries ordering from Dean and Deluca online, but she found she preferred the comfortable din of forks rattling on china and people engaging in idle pleasantries about the weather and church and other small-town concerns. It beat sitting all alone in her spotless, empty kitchen while idling through catalogs of furniture she didn't need and lingerie no man would ever see her in (_not at this rate, anyway_, she mused sullenly). It was both a social experiment and an attempt at routine, which had been her shrink's idea.

"I really think, Miss Thorne, that we should try a more…holistic approach to your condition before we attempt any new medication," Dr. Hopper had fretted at their last session, after she'd just gone through four days of hellish Klonopin withdrawal. She'd originally had high hopes for the drug, but her insomnia had actually gotten _worse_, and after finding things knocked over and misplaced in the mornings, she'd taken to locking herself in her room at night, afraid of how far she might venture in her sleep. There was no one else around to stop her.

The doctor's "holistic approach" included regular exercise, meditation, melatonin supplements and socialization. When she'd questioned how that last one was supposed to alleviate parasomnia, he'd given her a sort of pitying smile. "Miss Thorne, it's unhealthy to shut yourself up in that big house, all by yourself, all the time. You might as well be sealing yourself off in a mausoleum. You're _young_. Enjoy life."

So, she'd been trying to. Yoga classes and morning tea and danish at Granny's instead of sprawling on the fainting couch, listening to opera records and wallowing in misery about her now-ex boyfriend—whom thankfully she had yet to encounter at the diner, although she'd seen him and his _new _girlfriend more than once about town. She was the athletic type, with thick raven hair and striking burnt sienna eyes and some flowery name that belied her strength, but Roxane had taken some small consolation in the fact that she never seemed to smile, not even when he was beaming brighter than the sun. Surely they wouldn't last long.

It wasn't easy to make new friends in a town where everyone seemed to be sot in their ways and content with their present social circles, but Ruby had been nice to her from the start, filling her in on all the seamy town gossip that she hadn't bothered to follow before, like which sisters at the convent were supposedly less than chaste, or which firefighters were packing the most heat, in a certain manner of speaking. She'd filled her in on the particulars of Mary Margaret's situation before introducing them. "Just…I've known her a long time, okay? She's not a homewrecker, she's this amazingly sweet person."

And she had been, a smiling pixie of a woman who greeted Roxane warmly, complimenting her shoes and insisting that her perfume oil smelled "heavenly". Emma, her roommate and the new sheriff, was a different story, an aloof blonde in a leather jacket who sized her up with a suspicious eye, arms folded over her chest. "So, uh, Miss Thorne, what is it you do here, exactly?"

"I…" She hadn't exactly fielded this question before, nor had she expected the sheriff to be so…well, rude about it. "I, ah, have a trust fund," she finished lamely, not knowing what else to offer. _Well, I suffer multiple sleep disorders that prevent me from holding a job. Not that I need one since my parents were so rich and left me all their money. _From what little she knew of the sheriff's hard-knock life prior to her landing in Storybrooke, she didn't think that would come off too well.

"_Oh_," had been the entirety of Emma's response, and it was all she needed to say. _No, not well at all._

"Are you sure this is okay? With…everyone else?" she'd asked Ruby doubtfully once Emma and Mary Margaret had left, glancing between her and the invitation. The money thing had always made her self-conscious in these situations; she could always _feel _people thinking _oh, what a spoiled princess, _and that always silenced her, which invariably made them add _stuck-up bitch _to the list. She had never cared when she'd been in a relationship, because _he'd _been old money too; his father owned the polo club. But now…_I bet Lily or Orchid or whatever her name is doesn't even _like_ horses._

"Of course!" Ruby had insisted, an eager gleam in her eye. "Look, Emma's a little uptight sometimes, sure, but at a party? A _bachelorette_ party? Oh, you have to come. Just _wait'll_you see what I have planned."

* * *

After an hour at the party, two rounds of obscene Mad Libs (where Emma had claimed victory after busting out with the euphemism "custard launcher") and three vodka Jello shots, Roxane was still wondering what exactly Ruby had up her sleeve for the rest of the evening, although her thoughts were considerably more muddled now. Ashley had welcomed her into the group graciously enough at the start of the evening, but the bride-to-be was so lit at this point that she probably would've tried to cuddle with the giant phallus-shaped pinata, if it hadn't been dangling out of reach from Mary Margaret's ceiling.

"Why," Ashley hiccupped over the top of her red Solo cup, having forgone the shots in favor of straight cherry vodka, "all the emphasis on penises? Like, it's a little late to try and embarrass me with that stuff, guys."

"It's tradition." Emma shrugged, but she was now grinning broadly; apparently, a liberal dose of Three Olives worked wonders. "At least we didn't try to serve you that weiner-shaped pasta or anything."

"We should have," Mary Margaret supplied, her cheeks vivid pink, "and put, um, weiners in it. I mean…hot dogs…yeah."

"Speaking of hot dogs, I think _I _should've won the Mad Libs," Ruby pouted as she pulled another tray of Jello shots from the fridge.

"Ruby, I have heard a lot of classic synonyms for man-meat in my time, but 'mayo-shooting hot dog gun' is _not _one of them," Emma replied loftily, which sent all the other women into a gale of giggles. Roxane tittered softly, but despite the alcohol and bawdy jokes, she still felt shy, stiff…uneasy. Chalk another one up to social anxiety. The clonazepam had been supposed to help with that too, but after all the trouble she'd had with it, Dr. Hopper hadn't wanted to put her on anti-anxiety meds either.

"What's _wrong, _honey?" Ashley beseeched the newcomer with a bubbling chortle, putting an arm around her. "We're not _that_ scary, are we?"

"Miss Thorne, _you are,_" Emma pointed a stern finger at her, and Roxane felt herself shrink back into the couch cushions, half expecting the next words to be _under arrest, _"_not_ drunk enough. Ruby, can you fix that ?"

Ruby had no sooner bustled over with the shot tray than a sharp knock sounded on the door. "My, I wonder who that could be?" she mused aloud in a high, phony voice, smirking as she raced toward the door and flung it open.

The point of a rapier was jabbed between her breasts. "Prepare to be boarded," a low voice growled from behind the doorframe, and Ashley shrieked and knocked over her plastic cup, causing at least half of its contents to end up in Roxane's lap.

Giggling, Ruby backed away, throwing her arms up in surrender as a man in full pirate garb swashbuckled his way into the room. Well, perhaps _full _pirate garb was inaccurate: he wore a long black velvet frock coat over his bare muscular torso, waxed smooth save for the thin trail of dark hair that disappeared into black leather trousers. Blue eyes circled with black kohl smoldered beneath a jauntily tipped tricorn hat, winking cheekily at them even as his mouth sneered. Roxane was instantly even more uncomfortable, because not only was he the best looking man she'd seen in a _long _time, guyliner or no, there was a reasonably good chance he was going to be attempting to dry-hump her within minutes. She looked around for a place to hide, but there was none.

"Back, brazen wench," he commanded Ruby, poking her again in the cleavage with what was now quite obviously a fake sword. "Now tell me, where's the lass called Ashley?"

Ashley yelped again and clamped her hands over her mouth as the pirate sauntered over to her, casually sheathing his sword. "Avast," he said, moving to straddle her legs and lower himself down upon her lap, then snagging the front of her blouse on the costume-shop prosthetic hook that covered his left hand. "You'll not be gettin' married before Jolly Roger takes his turn. I sentence this wench to walk my plank."

The women all screamed with hysterical laughter. Tears were squeezing out of the corners of Ashley's eyes, her face bright red, as she shrieked "Oh, _my God_, Ruby!" Roxane just stared, mouth slightly ajar.

A boombox blared to life on the kitchen table—evidently Ruby's participation in this was greater than she realized—and the smutty strains of an R&B slow jam soared through the air. The pirate placed his tricorn hat on Ashley's head with another wink, then promptly began to disrobe, shrugging out of his frock coat with exaggerated thrusts of his hips in time to the music. The hook stayed on as the coat fell to the floor; he used it to tilt up her chin while he took her other hand in his and traced her fingertips down his chest, stopping at the end of his happy trail. "Oh, no, no, no, I can't," Ashley was babbling excitedly as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his pants. "I'm—I'm a _mom _now, and I can't take your pants off—"

"Lucky then you don't have to," the pirate snarked, as he leapt off her lap, bent over and tugged at one leg. The pants tore away, revealing a tight black thong with a skull and crossbones emblazoned on the pouch that left _very_ little to the imagination.

"Oh, I can't—" Ashley broke off temporarily as he took her hand again and rested it on one bare asscheek. "Oh, no, I can't, but my _single _friends—"

"Yeah, surrender the booty over here, Captain!" Emma hooted.

The pirate shrugged and backed off the bachelorette with a sly grin, only to promptly lower himself onto the lap of the girl seated next to her. Roxane's face had fully erupted in flames at this point; so had her netherregions, in fact. She blinked, and suddenly those azure eyes were boring holes into hers.

"What's your name, love?" he murmured into her ear, almost tenderly, as he gyrated against her thighs, hard cock brushing against her lower belly. She gasped sharply at the sensation.

Name? She had a name? Oh, yes, she did, two of them, in fact. The first one was…_er…well…fuck it_. The second… "T-Th-Thorne," she stammered out.

"Miss Thorne," crooned the pirate, chucking her under the chin. "Appropriate name, for a red little rose like you." Red? She supposed she probably was closer to purple at this point. "You've heard of the seven seas, haven't you, Miss Thorne?" he inquired as he guided her hand slowly up his chest, to his nipple this time, and she nodded mechanically, unable to form any kind of verbal response. "But d'you know where the _eighth _sea is?"

She shook her head, and he gave her a sharp nudge with the plastic hook. "What's that?" he teased her.

"N-no," she gulped.

"Why, it's right down here, love." And he rubbed the curve of the hook against her thigh, just barely brushing her mound through her thin, damp cotton dress. _How could he know?_ she thought numbly, then looked down and realized she'd had a half-pint of vodka dumped in her lap ten minutes earlier. And yet, her panties were soaked through for a completely different reason. The roar of laughter in her ears was deafening. Mary Margaret nearly fell off her chair.

He locked eyes with her again, then with another smug grin, leaned back on her hips and grabbed Ashley's half-full Solo cup off the coffee table, tipping out the contents on his chest and sucking in his stomach so that the alcohol dripped down to his navel. "Thirsty?" he quipped. Roxane gaped at him.

"Do it! Do it!" the others were chanting in the background, the sound nearly drowned out by the staccato thumping of her heartbeat. He gave her an encouraging smile, and she closed her eyes and thrust out her tongue, tracing it as far up his chest as she could, savoring the sharp burn of alcohol layered over the musky salt of his skin.

She didn't remember to open her eyes until she felt his hand brushing her hair back from her burning forehead. "Well done, lass," he mumbled, giving her a quick, furtive kiss on the mouth as he eased his weight off her sweltering lap.

She leapt to her feet and streaked toward Mary Margaret's bathroom, locking the door behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Credit for the name "Corrigan" goes to Annie; it means "spearman."

* * *

"Hey, Roxane? You, uh, okay in there?"

She was, in fact, curled in a fetal position on the shag rug, her cheek pressed to the cool tile floor, heart thudding like a timpani. It had been a fight-or-flight response to a situation she hadn't been prepared to deal with. He was just a stripper, apparently some friend of Ruby's, the evening entertainment. A novelty act. In the same category as comedy hypnotists and singing telegrams.

Except singing telegrams didn't customarily whisper in your ear while rubbing their massive erections against your navel. Nor did they entreat you to lick flavored vodka from their chiseled abs.

She might have been able to take all that in stride, had he not kissed her at the end.

"Y-Yes," she managed feebly from the floor. "Fine."

"You're not…sick?" Ruby paused for a moment, before her voice dropped to a stage whisper. "You taking care of yourself?"

She heard a burst of female laughter from the living room, over the droning bass of the music. His voice saying something she couldn't quite make out through the cacophony. Her stockings were uncomfortably damp at the apex of her thighs. Fingers experimentally wedged themselves underneath the nylon barrier, sliding behind the scrap of lace to test her wetness, the heat of her throbbing clit, but withdrew them just as quickly. _This is absurd._

"Look, don't feel weird, okay? Corey has that effect on a lot of women."

She would not have pegged him as a Corey. Corey was a name for washed-up former teen idols, not sex gods distilled into sculpted human bodies and poured into leather pants. "I'm fine," she repeated, voice partly muffled by the rug. "Just—go—I'll be out in a little bit."

Ruby's footsteps retreated from the door, and soon her voice joined the chorus of others in their drunken revelry. Roxane pulled herself up into a sitting position and leaned heavily against the cold porcelain of the bathtub. She tried to divert her thoughts by reading the backs of shampoo bottles, but then she'd hear a sudden peal of especially loud laughter and wonder what was happening out there. _Sodium laureth sulfate. _Was he rubbing up against Mary Margaret like a cat in heat? _Cocamide mea, stearyl alcohol, sodium chloride._ Would he kiss Emma, too?

There was going to be no hanging out with these people anymore; her brand-new social life was as over as soon as it had begun. Nobody liked a frigid uptight weirdo who couldn't take a joke, a buzzkill who spoiled everyone else's good time by barricading themselves in a bathroom. It was all her ex's fault, she told herself. If he hadn't dumped her for Magnolia, they'd be at home right now, enjoying themselves. Digging chopsticks into takeout containers. Watching movies while curled up in front of the fireplace. Having predictable, vanilla, missionary-style sex.

Which was probably why he'd left. Why Frangipani was probably going reverse cowgirl atop him at this very moment.

It wasn't that she was _unwilling _to mix it up; she just had a certain preference, that was all, like getting the cheese danish with slivered almonds every morning at Granny's. It had always been comforting, his weight pressing down on her as he looked into her eyes, telling her she was beautiful before he entered her. And it wasn't like she'd ever refused when he'd asked if she could be on top this time. Even if she hadn't been especially enthusiastic about it.

"I am not _frigid,_" she whispered to her reflection in the mirror over the sink, her skin still the hue of a beet, eye makeup having retreated to the oily creases of her lids. Of course she wasn't. She'd just licked a stripper's bare chest.

She was starting to think she might be spending the entire night in the bathroom, when a sharp knock sounded on the door. "He's leaving," came Ruby's crisp voice through the wood. "You can come out now."

Her tone made it plain that her patience for Roxane had worn thin. _I should just leave too, _she thought helplessly. _Slip out before anyone has a chance to say anything, then head straight home and never leave my house again. I'll just send everyone apology cards tomorrow._

She tentatively inched the door open and peered around the jamb. Ashley was murmuring into her cellphone, no doubt trying to assure her fiancé that her hen party consisted only of good wholesome activities like painting pottery or Pictionary. Mary Margaret and Emma's voices drifted out from the kitchen, arguing over who was making the next liquor run, while Ruby was crouched on the floor with a roll of paper towels, cleaning up the fallout from whatever fun had transpired in her absence. If she noticed Roxane slipping toward the door or furtively collecting her purse from the coat rack, she made no acknowledgement of it.

She eased the front door shut behind her with a soft click, feeling a swell of triumph that she'd managed a clean getaway, when the feeling was almost immediately punctured by a smooth, drawling voice.

"Miss Thorne. We missed you."

He was in the process of pulling on his frock coat, smirking at her. Roxane flattened herself against the wall, like a chameleon attempting to camouflage itself, and swallowed hard, feeling the blood rush up her neck again. "I—uh—" she began, her mouth feeling as if it had been stuffed with cotton. "I'm…very sorry, uh, Corey—"

He grimaced at that, chuckling. "It's Corrigan. Ruby knows I hate that nickname. Corey's something teenage girls write on the front of their Mead spirals. Probably why she insists on using it." He took a step closer to her. "But _I'm _sorry you weren't feeling well."

She caught a whiff of his cologne as he moved in, a marine medley of salt and sea breezes and something else she couldn't identify, but that filled her with a sudden, terrible urge to suck his neck. Corrigan propped an elbow on the wall beside her head and leaned in heavily, those lagoon-clear eyes heady with obvious lust as they captured her own. "I'd like to make it up to you, actually," he murmured. "Give you a private show. Free of charge, of course." His fingers drifted up to brush lightly across her heated cheek. "That is, if you don't have any other plans tonight."

Plans? Her plans were the same every night. Bubble bath, reading, anywhere from a few spoonfuls to half a pint of Cherry Garcia depending on how depressed she was, then locking herself in her room and trying to sleep, with varying degrees of success. She tried to imagine Dr. Hopper's advice in this situation. He was always telling her routine was an important factor in sleep regularity, but at the same time…_Enjoy life. _And well, enjoying life meant taking up attractive men on their offers to disrobe for you, didn't it?

Her tongue flicked out to moisten her dry lips as she considered Corrigan's offer and his sly, predatory smile, with its rows of white, slightly crooked teeth. She imagined those teeth clamping down on her nipples and felt another gush of heat between her thighs, and shut her eyes tightly until it passed.

When she opened them, he'd stepped away again, slinging the duffel bag full of his props over one shoulder. "Think about it," he said with a parting nod and another quick grin, before hustling down the stairs and out of sight.

Roxane stared after him in a daze, his scent still lingering in her nostrils, although the image in her mind was that of her shrink, pulling off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. _Now, uh, Miss Thorne_, she imagined him saying in that halting, diplomatic way of his, _you know I always tell you to let your conscience be your guide in these sorts of situations, but yes, I definitely recommend you sleep with this male stripper you just met._ She burst out laughing, then smothered it with a hand to her mouth.

_You idiot, _she told herself, and broke into a run.

He was getting into a yellow taxi parked at the curb. "Corrigan!" she called out, cringing inwardly at the note of desperation in her voice, but forgot all about it as he turned to face her, smile a mile wide.

"Your place or mine?"

* * *

The taxi ride had been mostly silent. Roxane had half a dozen questions to ask him about himself, but all seemed inappropriate, and most especially with a third party listening in, even if the driver was more engrossed with singing along to "Lovin' Every Minute Of It" in a phlegmy smoker's tenor. Instead, she stared at Corrigan as he smiled and massaged her knee. He seemed to have developed a fascination with her stockings, semi-sheer and black and patterned with tiny flowers.

Or maybe just a fascination with her legs in general, because there went his hand, sliding up to the hem of her skirt, gently kneading her flesh, fingers skirting down to the inside of her thigh and—oh—_yes_—to her hot, swollen mound. Her eyes widened in shock as he rubbed her, the layers of thin nylon and lace beneath his fingers creating a delicious friction that made her clasp her legs together tighter, that made her want to gasp and cry and rock against his hand, but she glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror and managed to swallow her joy. "_Touch that dial, turn me on,_" croaked the taxi driver. "_Start me like a motor, make me run…_"

She didn't get a chance to come before they'd pulled up to their destination, and Corrigan abruptly pulled his hand away from her to reach for his billfold. Mortified all over again, she leapt out of the car and stood there hugging herself and shivering in the chillier-than-usual night air as he paid, then finally looked around and realized why it was so cold. They were at the marina.

"You live _here?"_

He nodded, gesturing to a slip behind them where a cruiser with a fiery red hull was docked, its ghost-white sails bound tightly to the mast. _Jolly Roger, Storybrooke, ME _ was spelled out on the transom, accompanied by a decal of the same skull and crossbones he'd been sporting on his bulge earlier. "That's home. Stripping paid for it, so I figured I'd name it after my, ah, most popular character." He winked at her, then extended the same hand that had just been rubbing her crotch. "This way, milady."

Roxane accepted it and stepped carefully from dock to boat, following him down a cramped ladderwell into the cabin, which was far roomier and more modern than she'd been expecting. Oak panelled walls and a sitting area with plush red cushions, a flatscreen TV, a fully equipped kitchen with a tiny stove and microwave…and beyond that, a smaller room with a massive platform bed that took up nearly the entire space. Corrigan dropped his bag on the floor and headed into the kitchen. "Something to drink, Miss Thorne? Or eat? I'm quite good at boiling water."

She wasn't sure if she should be pleased at his gentlemanly hospitality or disappointed that he hadn't immediately started ripping her clothes off. "Uh—just water, thank you."

He opened the tiny fridge and procured a bottle of water for her and a cold Corona for himself as she settled herself hesitantly at the built-in dining table. "Why…if you don't mind my asking, why a boat?" she ventured.

Corrigan shrugged as he pried the cap off his beer. "The sea, she calls to me." He winked at her again as he slid into the booth beside her, his knees apart. "Besides, I never cared much for long-term commitments, especially in regards to property. It's house and vehicle in one, it's all mine, and I pay next to nothing for a slip, at least when I'm here. You ever been sailing, Miss Thorne?"

She flushed prettily under the intense weight of his gaze. "No, my…parents never cared for boats much. Horses, yes, but not boats."

"Ah, well, you should come with me sometime." There went his hand up her thigh again, tracing slowly along the outlines of the flower petals. "You'll never know if you have sea legs unless you try them out."

Her breath was growing labored again as he resumed his stroking. Taking a sip of water to calm herself, she moved to set the bottle back down on the table and missed completely. Half of it splattered down the front of her dress, while the rest drenched his lap. He glanced down at the sodden leather, eyes widened in shock.

Roxane wished very hard to die, or at least make herself invisible, but neither seemed to be forthcoming. She buried her face in her hands and let out a muffled sob instead, just as Corrigan burst into raucous laughter.

"Oh, _love,_" he howled, swabbing at his crotch with a dishtowel, "I've never met anyone so nervous around me before."

Roxane peeked at him from between her fingers. "I've…never _been _so nervous around anyone before."

He smiled. "Come here." And before she could respond, he drew her tightly into his arms and seized her mouth with his, tongue probing deep as she struggled to breathe through her nostrils, her soaked bodice clinging to his bare chest. He tasted of beer, of course, but also strangely of cinnamon, and the combination intrigued her as she swished her own tongue along the length of his. She sighed softly into his mouth, and he let out a throaty growl in response.

By the time they broke apart, her head was swimming, his kiss proving to be far more potent than the Jello shots. "Let's get out of these wet clothes, hm?" he prompted her, offering her his hand again and leading her to the bedroom.

He pulled off her dress first, crumpling the soggy cotton and flinging it carelessly into a corner of the cabin, then shucked off his own frock coat as she sat on the edge of the mattress. He paused to examine her critically, gently pushing her knees apart. "Much as I love these, darling," he said, caressing her stockings, "I'm afraid they're in my way."

And he seized the nylon and ripped, until there were nothing but tatters clinging to her legs. "Sorry about that," he breathed into her ear, hands snaking around her sides to unhook her bra. "I'd offer to buy you new ones, but I'd just end up ripping them, too."

Roxane felt faint, all the blood in her head having traveled south as his strong arms encircled her and her bra tumbled to the floor, erect nipples pushing into his chest as he pressed her back against the bed. That wonderful, intoxicating sea-scent filled her nostrils again, and she latched onto his neck and began to suck hard. He groaned in surprise at the sudden warm suction.

"Like leaving marks, do you?" Corrigan purred. "Me too." And he bit her left nipple, just hard enough to make her shriek with both pain and pleasure as her body writhed beneath his. He lashed the puffy areola with his tongue as he hooked his fingers through the the delicate scalloped lace of her thong and pulled hard, hard enough to tear the threads. "Oh, my, look at what I'm doing to all your pretty underthings," he breathed in mock concern, tonguetip brushing over her right nipple now as he worked them all the way off. "Shouldn't have worn any at all."

He quickly found her sweet, pulsing nub, working it slowly as he parted her folds with his other fingers, blowing cool air on that wet heat and sending a powerful shudder through her body. "Mmm, how pretty and pink you are down here," he mused appreciatively. "A dripping little rose." And he began to lap up her juices, tongue a moist flickering flame between her legs. Roxane sank her nails into the bedspread in a feeble attempt to anchor herself, for she was certain she'd end up floating away. "Cor-Corrigan—_ohhhhhh_," she cried out as he thrust his finger inside, adding a second and then a third as he pumped away, crooking them just so to hit a particularly lovely spot, as little squelching noises escaped from her cunt.

She wasn't prepared at all when he withdrew them, leaving her feeling wretchedly empty. "Oh, no, no," she heard herself gasping. "Put…put them back in, Corrigan…oh, please…"

"You sure?" Those wet, sticky fingers grasped her chin, thumb drawing between her soft parted lips. She could taste herself, strange and tangy and _dirty_, and it thrilled her. "Wouldn't you rather have my cock there, now?"

"Oh…oh, yes," Roxane breathed, feeling about ready to roast within her own skin, her blood high and hot beneath the surface. She rolled over on her belly to watch as he ripped off those tearaway pants once more, then shimmied out of the thong barely restraining his cock. He was hot and hard and enormous, and uncut to boot. She reached out hesitantly to stroke him; his foreskin was soft and tractile, sliding back behind that great bulbous head that fairly oozed with his eagerness. He smiled, looking quite self-satisfied at her expression, then stepped away from her to retrieve something from within his coat.

"Do me the honors?" he inquired, extending a gold foil packet to her.

Roxane was no expert at putting on condoms, since she'd only been with one other man and had always relied on other methods, so her hands were shaking as she rolled the thin latex sheath down to the base of his cock. "Your hands are so soft, did anyone ever tell you that?" he murmured, looking pleased.

"I-I don't think so." Not that she could remember, anyway.

"They are. Just like the rest of you." He clambered onto the bed, positioning himself behind her, knees on either side of hers as he hoisted her hips up just enough to wedge a pillow beneath them, her ass now raised slightly in the air. "You're so soft…and you smell good, and you taste good, and you feel good." He slapped her gently on the bottom, and before she quite realized it, the head of his cock was slipping between her folds, pushing, seeking, thrusting…_oh. _She cried out loudly as he gripped her hips, thumbs digging into her ass, and began pumping with reckless abandon.

This had nothing to do with romance, she thought; this was not the tender, pedestrian lovemaking of her prior relationship. This was raw and animalistic and all about lust. About Corrigan's iron-hard cock drilling its way into her molten core and making her cry and moan and clutch at the sheets, while small, efficient grunts emanated from his own throat. "Fuck," he hissed. "Oh, _yes_, Miss Thorne. So _good_."

She pushed back against him, arching her back and drawing her rear end up tightly against his groin, feeling the prickle of his coarse pubic hair against her own sensitive skin as he ground into her, driving his dick as deep as it would go. His cock head grazed that wonderful spot with each pass, a flicker of ecstasy that made her wail every time. Roxane glanced over her shoulder, straining to look at him despite her whole body quaking with the effort of his thrusts, and felt triumph once more at the sight of his red face, gritted teeth, and the huge vein bulging out on his forehead.

She rubbed herself against the pillow as they rocked back and forth, the furious throbbing in her ultra-sensitive clit reaching an unbearable high, seized with the sudden, intense desire to come before he did. It wasn't to be, though; just as she was teetering maddeningly close to the edge, he heralded his own climax with a strangled shout and slumped over her back. He pressed a moist kiss between her shoulder blades as he eased his cock out, then wedged his fingers between her mound and the pillow and started to fondle her clit again.

And then a high, tinny, annoying ringtone filled the air, the sound rising from the pile of discarded clothing on the floor.

"Ugh," Corrigan muttered into the nape of her neck. "We'll just have to ignore it." She nodded, her breathing growing sharper and shorter as those strong fingers worked wonders.

But it didn't stop; it kept ringing. And it was rapidly killing the mood. "Maybe…just turn it off," Roxane mumbled, not wanting him to stop, but very much wanting to chuck the phone into the ocean.

Corrigan hesitated, but when it rang yet _again, _he sputtered a stream of curses and heaved himself off the bed, furrowing through his clothing until he retrieved it. "What the—" he cut himself off, reading the screen, then answered the call. "Ruby, what do you _want?_" he demanded as he rejoined Roxane, who'd rolled over onto her back, and wasted no time in resuming his ministrations, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. Roxane tried not to giggle.

"Roxane? Oh, you mean Miss Thorne? Yes, she's with me, and yes, she's fine." The stripper winked at her again as his busy hand produced a sudden cry of delight. "She's just coming."


End file.
